Eyesore
by Zeff N Company
Summary: The blurred world was back – that warm, safe, fuzzy world which protected him, keeping the truth at bay. As long as he could not see it, he could pretend it was not true at all.


_Time after time, I've chickened out on writing stuff like this, simply because it scares me. I don't think I need to explain how old age can be daunting, especially those who have already passed their prime. Still, I managed to finish this, simply because it would not leave me alone until I did.  
_

_Either way, here we are. Still, I refuse to call this a birthday story - it's just too…__ rude.  
_

* * *

It was one of those days again; ones where he would wake up with his mind an eerily cold blank, where he knew with certainty that he had forgotten something.

He hated those days…

The world was nothing but a soft fuzzy blur about him. A dim swirl of unsaturated color that he vaguely registered was not supposed to be how the world looked. As he finally figured what he had forgotten, he heard something move: a chair… Someone sitting in a chair…

"Leon, are you alright in there?"

Of course he was not alright; his glasses were missing.

He did not give more than a grunt as he blindly swept his hand over his right, where the earthy tones suggested there might be a desk there. Sure enough, he felt a flat surface, and heard the jingle of metal and plastic that were probably his pens and what other things he left there. As his noisy search continued, he heard no further sounds from the chair; the other was leaving him alone, as he hoped.

As he kept sweeping and groping, he wondered – if only for a second – if he would even recall how his glasses felt like. He wondered if he had already found them, but failed to recognize them and moved on. He wondered why he even took them off to begin with, resulting in this bothersome task. His mind drifted from one point to the next, from the current to the trivial, from the trivial back to the current, and still did his hand keep moving.

Something cold to the touch registered against his fingers. Glass… It was a glass cylinder… No… A glass vase…

_With a loud curse, he all but tore the offending object off his face and threw it across the room, not caring if it broke. It clattered upon contact with the waste bin and stayed there._

The waste bin…!

Turning, he got to his feet and made his uncertain way toward the other end of the room, his hand out and feeling along the wall just in case. Finally, he made out the gray silhouette of the bin, and as he ran a hand down its side, he heard something click against the floor tiles. His palm turned and closed over his prize, and he pulled it up to his chest. Slowly, thoughtfully, he ran his thumb over the lenses to search for scratches.

He frowned as he found one particularly large one, and he wondered what had provoked him into causing damage to such a necessary piece of equipment. Regardless, he dismissed it; the frame was still in one piece, so it was at least usable. He wiped the glass down, and then he slipped the glasses back upon the bridge of his nose. Before him, the muted blur he was familiar with sharpened drastically. Everything came into focus…

Everything became horribly, horribly wrong.

He was in his office, and the light had been set on "dim". All about him was a mess of paper – some torn, others crushed, more mauled beyond recognition – and each that he could identify was covered in unintelligible scrawls that he found was his own doing. Words he could barely make out screamed at him not in their readability but in their context. Words of anger and bitterness, of sadness and desperation… One word stood out, as it was repeated over and over again:

"_Useless"…_

What had come over him? What was going on in here?

He was tempted to call to the other he knew was still there – still sitting in that chair – and demand an explanation, but his pride held his tongue. No… He could handle this himself… He had always handled himself just fine… He could do this…

Where was Cid when he needed him, anyway? As loud and uncouth as the old man was, Cid would never let him stray from his job this badly. He had to find Cid and set things straight, to find his priorities…

He turned back to the desk, to search for a phone he could use. He found no phone, but instead he found a picture frame; in that frame was a wizened face, and age-weakened jaw still clamped tight over a cigarette. Then he read the text under it and recognized who it was. Recognized what had happened…

Cid was gone; he had passed on years ago from old age and smoking-related complications.

Suddenly, he felt the urgent need to know how many more had died that he forgot about. Where were Aerith and Yuffie? Were their photographs here, or were they still alive? He needed an answer, and his cursed memory gave him no answer.

Then he looked up, and found in his line of vision the one he knew was there.

Sitting in the computer chair – Cid's computer chair – was a man with blond spiky hair. At one glance, he seemed perhaps only just reaching middle age, and he maintained the solid build of one who used a sword and used it well. This man who had been enhanced to live beyond anyone else, to age at a much slower rate than anyone else… Was it "Mako", or some deal with a devil? He could not remember the details, but to look at him now, it was as though time had stopped.

Then he looked down at his hand, and time leapt forward once more.

Staring back at him was a palm he barely recognized, covered in more calluses than he felt comfortable with; turning it over, he saw thick veins protruding from the back of his hand. Since when had his hand resembled a claw that much…?

He did not try to find a mirror; he did not want to. He could not look at himself now, to see the truth about what had become of him. Instead, he looked back at the lie that was before him, at the impossible image of a still young man that managed everything with a steadiness and assurance; a young man that held all control over his situation, and all the time in the world.

…_enough…_

He… had… neither…

_ENOUGH!_

With a loud curse, his hand reached up to his face and seized the offending object – the hateful tool that showed him all he wished to never see – and ripped it from its place. He heard a distinct crack – the glass breaking even further – and chose to ignore it. With a second oath, he flung it contemptuously across the room, hearing it slide, bump and clatter to noisily connect with the edge of the wall, where it stayed and never moved again.

The blurred world was back – that warm, safe, fuzzy world which protected him, keeping the truth at bay. As long as he could not see it, he could pretend it was not true at all. He could pretend that the world was as he wanted it: the world where he was not old, not aged and weak and unable to do a thing for anyone; the world where he was still young and strong, where he was still the leader, the guardian, the hero…

He could pretend that he was not useless.

There was a sudden squeak that snapped him out of his thoughts, and he blearily registered what it was: the rusty wheels of a chair; of someone sitting in a chair. As he looked around him, the world was nothing but a soft fuzzy blur about him. A dim swirl of unsaturated color that he vaguely registered was not supposed to be how the world looked.

It was one of those days again; ones where he would wake up with his mind an eerily cold blank, where he knew with certainty that he had forgotten something.

The chair was moving again, and he heard the one who sat upon it call to him.

"Leon, are you sure you're alright in there?"

Fool. Of course he was not alright.

His glasses were missing.


End file.
